


In Crystal Cages, Our Memories Burn

by writerdragonfly



Category: Final Fantasy XIII Series, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canonical Character Death, Derek is Lightning Farron, F/M, M/M, No prior knowledge of Final Fantasy needed, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Lives, Post-Lightning Returns, Reincarnation, Resurrection, Sterek Haven Big Bang, Surprise Pairings, Teen Wolf canon compliant through 3B, shifting pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:37:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4337732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerdragonfly/pseuds/writerdragonfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories of a past life start to unfurl for the pack, leading to some very happy discoveries for Derek and Stiles. Unfortunately, it's not just the good guys suddenly remembering a life before. One of them used to be a god and they're not exactly happy with the way the dice rolled this time around. Teen Wolf canon through 3B.</p><p>Fusion with the Final Fantasy XIII Trilogy, set post Lightning Returns.</p><p>With lovely art by <a href="http://fandom-madnessess.tumblr.com/"> fandom-madnessess </a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue -  The Bars Are Melting, Cinderella Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Please note:  
> Some limited dialogue, primarily in block quotes, is borrowed directly from the Final Fantasy XIII trilogy.
> 
> Initial beta by the lovely apinkducky, but I did a lot after her last round of edits, so throw your pitchforks at me.
> 
> Can be read without prior knowledge of Final Fantasy XIII--it'll just be awesome and nerdtastic if you've played.

**Prologue - _The Bars Are Melting, Cinderella Girl_**

* * *

 

Laura is twenty two years old and in love and happy. She’s a few weeks away from graduating with her bachelors, her boyfriend came home with her for the weekend, and it’s the night of the Beacon Hills Spring Fling dance, the biggest public dance in Beacon Hills.

 

Laura has a good life, an easy one. She’s happy where she is.

 

Her happiness doesn’t last. Neither does her peace.

 

The first thing she thinks about when **_it_** happens is the fact that her mother took great pride in a killer pair of high heels.

 

Being a werewolf has a lot of drawbacks and a lot of perks, and that’s the one thing that runs through her mind right then.

 

High heels never hurt for long when you were a werewolf. The strain of wearing them never lasts long.

 

Her mother lends her a pair of strappy black heels, her absolute favorite pair. She brushes her bangs away and kisses her forehead with a gentle press of her lips.

 

"Have fun, Princess. Look out for your brother."

 

And then, she walks away from her mom and bullies her brother into driving so she could make out with Ashton in the backseat.

 

And two hours later, she stands stock still in the middle of a dance floor in her mother's heels and feels the sudden rush of power flow through her veins and _knows_.

 

Her mother loved wearing high heels. She loved being powerful and she loved her children.

 

And now her mother is dead.

 

Derek. Where is Derek?

 

Ashton lays a hand on her shoulder, says something softly. She doesn’t know what the words are; they sound foreign to her ears.

 

"Derek. Derek. Derek."

 

She could feel the crack of her knuckles as her claws beg to come free and her jaw aches with the dropping of her fangs.

 

"Derek!"

 

She fists her fingers against her sides and hangs her head until her hair falls across her face. Everything hurts.

 

"Laura? Laura, calm down. What's wrong, Laura?"

 

 

-x-

 

The memories don’t come all at once. The first one comes that night, when she slumps against Derek in the backseat of the police cruiser sitting on the edge of their property.

 

There's a little kid in the front seat, hair buzzed short against his head. His face is pressed up against the grate, his brown eyes wet with unshed tears.

 

And she knows who he is.

 

 _Stiles._ Brave child, strong willed and bright.

 

She could remember when she saw him for the first time. Trailing along after Derek, a twisted metal bar resembling a baseball bat strapped to his back.

 

She could remember the first time he saw her, how brave he and Derek had both been as they fought against her.

 

As she pledged her service to Derek...

 

"My dad's gonna find out what happened. He's the best cop in the world."

 

She pounds against the door until the kid releases the automatic lock and she stumbles out on her hands and feet, throwing up all over the gravel of her long driveway.

 

-x-

 

The thing about it is, she doesn’t figure out what is going on for a long time.

 

It’s easy to blame it all on the new power inside her, blame the waking dreams and painful nightmares on the tragedy of what had happened to her family.

 

But with time, things become clearer.

 

She remembers two lives. She remembers being born of Derek's brand, her power unfurling with the ink black on his skin. She remembers fading, her head screaming with pain when he completes his focus and the world is saved. And she remembers being brought back by the hands of the prophetess, the last one--the final one. She remembers the way the sun felt on her feathers, the way it felt to feel the wind under her wings, and the way it felt to help Derek one last time.

 

And Derek saved her. Derek gave her a soul, or perhaps more accurately, uncovered hers.

 

Whatever it was that brought their souls to this earth, that gave them new life here? It was because of him. Because of her brother and his friends.

 

She is so indescribably proud of him, and she couldn't tell him.

 

He wouldn't understand. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

 

-x-

 

New York is nothing like Pulse, nothing like the Wildlands. It’s concrete and metal and the air didn't taste fresh.

 

She loves it.

 

Derek doesn’t.

 

Derek doesn’t like a lot of things. He doesn’t like the way it smelled or taking the self defense classes or how crowded his college campus is.

 

But he likes being useful, likes spending time with her. She can’t get him to go out much, but that is okay.

 

The more she remembers, the less she wants him hurt.

 

-x-

 

And then, the photocopied report comes in the mail. Slightly wrinkled, the ink worn at the folds.

 

She knows what it meant, what it means.

 

She packs a bag and heads back to Beacon Hills. Back to clean air and trees and the sickly sweet scent that Peter gives off.

 

And something in her chest feels off, something more than the twinge of pain from leaving Derek behind or the heartache of breaking up with the man she loves before she leaves.

 

She’s certain she’s heading to her death.

 

-x-

 

When his teeth rip into her flesh, she finally knows what it means. That smell.

 

But it’s too late.

 

"You'll never win," she gasps.

 

And she knew no more.


	2. Chapter One - A Boy and His Father

**Chapter One - _A Boy and His Father_**

* * *

 

 

 

 

> _"Not making a wish, Stiles?”_
> 
> _“Dad, you still believe in that kind of stuff? Wishing on fireworks, really? That's for little kids.”_
> 
> _“Who are you calling kid?”_
> 
> _“You. What did you wish for?”_
> 
> _“That next year--your step-mother can come with us.”_
> 
> _“Why? It's better like this. We don't need her.”_
> 
> _-_
> 
> _Stiles is riding a train, his hands cuffed together in front of him. He's wearing a heavy white cloak, the hood pulled over his face._  
>    
>  _He's just another body on the train: They all look the same--cuffed hands and white cloaks. They're being exiled, Stiles knows, though he doesn't know how._  
>    
>  _Or why._  
>    
>  _He ignores the static voice echoing through the speakers. He's afraid._  
>    
>  _"Everything's going to be okay, Stiles," his father softly whispers from his spot next to him. Stiles manages a weak smile, even knowing that his father cannot see it._  
>    
>  _He is fourteen years old and he is terrified of what’s to come._  
>    
>  _His father is an important man back home, newly appointed as a high ranking officer of the Palumpolum Guardian Corps and Stiles wishes that it would mean they could go home instead._  
>    
>  _A man had offered his father a return home, told him he was exempt. But his father had refused._  
>    
>  _Because of him. Because Stiles was not exempt from their exile._
> 
>   
>  _And his father would never leave him behind._

-x-

 

December opens quietly. There are no supernatural creatures to battle, no hunters to run from. Isaac and Chris Argent have yet to return to Beacon Hills, though Scott reports that they're still alive (and still together) in France.

 

The first few weeks are blissfully quiet. Stiles stays awake long past midnight, though he manages to make it to school with enough energy to actually participate most days. There are reports around the city that Stiles was involved in some unnamed gang activity, speculation of twins separated at birth, and mental breakdowns, but ultimately the mystery of what had occurred when Stiles was possessed by the Nogitsune falls to the wayside to most of Beacon Hills.

 

Safer, mundane things start taking up the bulk of conversation. There are no mysterious deaths, no missing people, no sudden bouts of thwarted attacks.

 

Beacon Hills seems to sit at a standstill.

 

It's easy then, in the quiet aftermath of everything that happened, for them to forget that all the locale under the sheriff's protection is more than just the city of Beacon Hills. Beacon County isn't much else, but there are a few more towns within the limits.

 

It's those that are affected first.

 

A young woman from Beacon Valley commits suicide on a Sunday. On Monday, a Beacon Heights city council member is involved in a fatal car accident. It continues like that, seemingly unconnected events of random death.

 

Until three weeks into December. Stiles wakes up that morning feeling entirely exhausted despite having slept even more than his usual. The sky is overcast, keeping what little snowfall they've had in late fall and into early winter solid on the ground. It's a bitterly cold Thursday morning two days into winter break and he has no reason to wake up.

 

His dad's phone is blaring the Cops theme song, the police station calling him despite the fact that he hasn't been home for more than a couple hours.

 

"Sheriff Stilinski," Stiles hears his dad's sleep gruff voice say.

 

And then his tone totally changes.

 

"When was he found?"

 

Stiles is up and out of his room in seconds. He shares a look with his dad and heads downstairs, starts up a pot of coffee for his dad and waits.

 

"What happened?" Stiles asks as soon as his dad walks into the kitchen, wearing his slightly rumpled uniform.

 

"Mayor Mahealani was found hanging from the old clock tower in the center of town this morning."

 

And Stiles just knows that this isn't going to be the end of it.

 

The waiting period is over.

 

-x-

 

The sheriff isn't surprised when Stiles shows up at the barricades of the crime scene. He thinks he should probably send Parrish or Haigh to tell him to go home, but he can't help but feel that Stiles might need to see it.

 

Not the body, but the crime scene.

 

It's irrational to assume that his son can glean anything more from the crime scene than he can. Stiles is only seventeen and hardly has the training of an investigator. But yet, he _knows_ that Stiles needs to see this. That there is something more to this than a simple murder.

 

He glances back at his son a few too many times, and Parrish follows his gaze.

 

"You want me to send him home, Sheriff?"

 

"Not unless he tries to get any closer," he tells him.

 

He just hopes that Rafael McCall doesn't show up while Stiles is still in viewing distance of the barricades.

 

That's the last thing he needs. Another reason for the agent to watch his son.

 

-x-

 

Stiles is aware of the eyes on him. Haigh seems to be particularly invested in what Stiles does, and if he's honest it makes his skin crawl.

 

He hasn't spent much time around the newer deputies, and the only one he's truly seen in his father's company for more than a few passing moments as of late is Parrish. Even now, he sees Parrish standing beside his father like some sort of guardian spirit and interested student, carefully taking in the scene before them.

 

Stiles can't help but flinch as the bright light of a camera flash erupts somewhere behind him, probably the local paper taking some good shots of the scene before they finally get the mayor cut down all the way. The crime scene unit is taking pictures much closer.

 

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you--" a woman's voice says, her breath warm against the cup of his ear. He flinches again at the unexpected contact and pulls himself backward once he's calmed.

 

The girl beside him is a pretty brunette and she's familiar. It takes a moment for him to place her, the lack of black light makeup and pink wig throwing him off.

 

She's wearing sensible clothing, all the club wear stripped away from her like an old skin. She's dressed the part of a young professional, and the expensive camera around her neck seems to accentuate that.

 

"Sorry, Caitlin," he finally manages to say in reply, looking away from her.

 

"You know my name?" She asks with honest surprise in her voice. She's blinking at him when he finally looks at her again.

 

"Black light party?" he offers, not wanting to bring up the other incident in which he recognizes her. It's hard enough for him to deal with what memory he has of the night of the party, he can't imagine what she might think if he brought up the night her girlfriend died.

 

"Oh. I'm sorry, I don't remember much from that night," she admits, a faint blush across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

 

"We didn't spend a lot of time talking, and I kind of abandoned you with a bottle of water," he replies, giving her an out.

 

She takes it with a smile, "Well, thank you for the water then. So... What's your interest in this morning's crime scene? Teenage desire to see a dead body?"

 

"Followed my dad out here actually. He's the sheriff," Stiles tells her, looking towards his father. He catalogues the scene again as he scans it, hoping he doesn't miss anything. If this isn't a normal crime--which, Stiles understands his luck doesn't go far enough for this to be anything as simple as that--then he needs to remember as much as he can. His father can only get him so much information with Scott's dad still playing at overseer.

 

"Oh? You're Stiles then, right?" she asks, angling her camera to snap another old school photo of the scene.

 

"I didn't realize you'd know my name," he admitted, looking back at her. She grins.

 

"Only that the sheriff's son calls himself Stiles, to be honest. Oooh, they're cutting the body down now," she points out, pointing a blue painted nail towards the clock tower. The bucket of the fire truck is angled perfectly for the two people inside to catch the body,

 

Stiles is too far away to see what they're cutting the rope with, but he thinks Caitlin might be able to see it when her pictures come out. He thinks about asking to see them when she's done, but he doesn't.

 

Instead, he slinks away quietly, trying to commit the scene to memory.

 

-x-

 

It's nearly ten by the time Stiles manages to finally eat breakfast. His father let him know he wouldn't be home any time soon--something that he'd expected anyway--and Stiles had taken the few empty morning hours starting a new board. He abandoned the yarn, too many twisted memories echoing in his head. He had thought, briefly, of using his computer, but he thinks about an expansive screen of all that remained of a once beautiful world and knows he can't do that either.

 

He feels uneasy with things as he sets up his board, what scant details he recalls pinned with mismatched pins. The sense of wrongness he's felt since his dad's phone woke him hadn't lessened at all with time.

 

There's a knock on the door as he's finishing his meal, and he answers it with half a slice of toast in his mouth.

 

Caitlin is standing on the other side, holding a file folder in her arms and looking decidedly off.

 

"I'm sorry to bother you. I thought about going to the police station, but... You... You were there the night my girlfriend died, weren't you?"

 

Stiles doesn't understand it, of course. She hadn't recognized him a few hours earlier, so why had she come to him now?

 

"Yeah, I'm sorry about tha--"

 

"It doesn't matter, I just... You figured out what was going on, and no one believed you did they?"

 

"What are you...?"

 

"Harley said you were into all that occult stuff when I showed her my photos from this morning. Look, I just want to know if you recognize anything. I don't... I don't want this to be awkward, but I don't know where else to go."

 

And that cinches it. He's not a perfect person, he knows that. But someone came to _him_ for help and he isn't about to turn her away.

 

"Come inside."

 

-x-

 

By lunch, the early morning dreariness has passed into outright storms. It's just above freezing, heavy raindrops falling from the sky like tiny frigid bombs.

 

Sheriff Stilinski is pouring over the tentative medical report from Mayor Mahealani's autopsy, wishing Beacon Hills were big enough to have a medical examiner's office like Boston or Chicago, while also being glad that it isn't.

 

Parrish pushes his way into his recently recovered office, his heavy wet snow boots sloshing on the rug.

 

"Sorry about the water, Sheriff. I brought you some lunch." Parrish holds up a slightly damp brown paper bag. He's not sure if it's wet from the rain or grease, but with the way his morning has gone he's hoping for grease.

 

"Thanks, kid," he manages to grunt out, wanting nothing more than to call it a day and go home to his bed.

 

"You're welcome, sir. Haigh took a call about an abandoned car out by the preserve as I was coming in." Parrish’s lips quirk up in a sly smile when the sheriff pulls out a cheap plastic container of salad.

 

"My kid has corrupted you," the Sheriff tells him, but his own smile has made its way onto his face.

 

"There's a burger in there, too. I couldn't take all your dreams away," Parrish jokes as he heads back out.

 

The Sheriff wants to throw back a few more words, but his desk phone starts ringing.

 

Of course it does, with the way today has gone.

 

-x-

 

Caitlin's pictures are incredible. It's obvious she loves photography just from the sheer quality alone. She'd mentioned that whatever she couldn't sell to _The Beacon Star_ were supposed to be for her portfolio, but she was hesitant to include them in anything as soon as they came out.

 

And Stiles can see why.

 

Caitlin wasn't really taking pictures of the body so much as the scene. He especially likes the picture of his father with an upraised arm, directing a couple of officers into the clock tower building.

 

What comes out in the photos that he hadn't seen in person is a shimmering pink symbol scrawled on the clock face above the Mayor's head. It’s in the shape of an inverted pentagram, and in the center what looks like the letter V.

 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls his dad without even responding to Caitlin.

 

-x-

 

"You've had more murders in this town in the past year than the past twenty years, John," McCall continues, slapping the dark green file folder against his desk.

 

"I was aware of that, thanks."

 

"You can't tell me you're doing everything you can when you refuse to acknowledge that Stiles--"

 

"You will not bring my son into--"

 

"Your son brought himself into this! And just like other killers, he showed up to the scene of his crime to revisit it!"

 

Before he could yell his response, there was a loud knock on the office door and then it swung open.

 

"Sorry to interrupt, sir. You have a phone call on line one about the case," Parrish said, keeping his voice even.

 

"Thank you, Deputy Parrish. I will be taking--"

 

"I'm sorry, Agent McCall. I've been informed that you no longer have jurisdiction in Beacon County. Your section chief called a few minutes ago to let us know," Parrish said, stepping into the room and between McCall and the phone on the desk.

 

"This isn't the end of this conversation, John," McCall snarls, walking briskly out of the room.

 

Parrish waits a beat before closing the door.

 

"It's Stiles on the line. He said he tried calling your cell but I assume you had it on silent. One of his classmates approached him with some pictures of this morning's crime scene. I'm heading out to check on what he said, but I figured you'd want to talk about it with him anyway," Parrish said, letting a brief smile cross his lips.

 

"Did McCall's section chief really call?" The sheriff asked, relaxing into his chair.

  
"Yes. I made an inquiry to her last week once he finally cleared out. Seemed odd he'd be staying after that. She called to let me officially know he was being recalled back to San Diego, pending a transfer out of state. And for what it's worth, sir, I don't think your son did this."

 

-x-

 

Stiles pulls into the parking lot near Derek's building with an exhausted groan, his brakes squealing unhappily. He needed new brake pads or something, not that he had any actual idea what that something was. Brake pads were a real thing, right?

 

He'd poured over a few websites on his laptop with Caitlin pressed up against him for a good two hours before his dad finally called back with news about the clock search. And it had been nice, he could admit, to have a pretty girl pressed up against him. But even if he wanted to date her--which he wouldn't necessarily be _opposed to_ knowing what he knew about her--she was happily dating Harley. Which, Stiles was a little disappointed that Harley hadn't told him she was into girls too. It made sense that she hadn't--he couldn't even remember the last time he'd really spoken to her and she had once been his only other friend besides Scott. He wasn't sure if what had separated them so much had been the supernatural shitstorm or the usual high school one, and if he were honest, he wasn't sure it mattered. They'd ultimately both failed to keep up their friendship.

 

Caitlin had left with Stiles' cell phone number and a promise that he would answer any questions she asked. Maybe it wasn't right for him to promise that to her without talking to Scott or Derek (or even Lydia), but it felt the right thing to do and so little had lately.

 

His dad had let him know that the storm had washed the clock face fairly well, though Deputy Parrish had found some traces of something that they probably wouldn't be able to identify. There _had_ been something there, something that was impossible to see with the naked eye. Something that had only shown up through 35mm film.

 

But it was something.

 

And now it was early evening and the rainstorm hadn't let up in the least bit. The sky was mostly dark with the setting sun and the temperature had dropped enough that the rain was freezing as it pounded against his windshield. It was terrible out.

 

Like his mood.

 

He'd fallen asleep on the couch and woken up from a dream (about Derek trussed up like a soldier in some science fiction movie, handing him a pocket knife) because of the door bell.

 

 

> _He’s in some strange forest, somewhat resembling the forest from Pandora at night, everything cast in shades of blue light. It’s not the same though, he and Derek are standing on a road that seems to be made of something far more scientifically advanced than he’s ever seen in real life. There are thick glowing wires around branches of trees, and the air feels light and electric. Recycled, maybe._
> 
>  
> 
> _But nothing feels like a dream. It feels like he’s lived this. Like he knows it._
> 
> _“Have you ever been here before? On duty, I mean.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“No, I haven’t. This area’s covered by the Woodlands Observation Battalion. You scared?” Derek asks._
> 
>  
> 
> _Stiles huffs, “Not really. I’m ready to fight if I have to.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Derek doesn’t say anything for a beat, his arm reaching back to something hooked on the back of his uniform._
> 
>  
> 
> _A knife. It’s a survival pocket knife, sharp on both sides--one side a smooth blade and the other serrated. It’s folded up when Derek presents it, the blade securely within the handle._
> 
>  
> 
> _“To keep you safe,” Derek says, and holds it out with the bottom of the handle pointed at Stiles until he takes it._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Uhh,” Stiles mumbles as he wraps his hand around it._
> 
>  
> 
> _“I’ll want it back,” Derek states. Then he turns around and continues to walk along the path. Stiles holds the knife in his hand, a finger slipping through the ring at the top. Derek’s name is inscribed at the bottom._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Derek!” Stiles says suddenly, rushing to catch up, “I’m glad I followed you. By myself, I would have had no chance.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Time to move. Trust me to cover your tail, and stay focused on moving forward,” Derek says. Stiles smiles a little, and follows._ _  
> _

 

He answers the door with it feeling heavy in his mind, probably pays too much for the pizza. It had shifted in the box and some of his cheese was stuck to the cardboard, but he eats it dutifully with his mind still thinking of the dream.

 

And he couldn't help but want to see Derek Hale now, which was stupid and inconvenient and his dad had asked him not to drive in this weather.

 

But he had anyway, because his chest was doing stupid flippy things and he couldn't take any more research into invisible pink glitter without wanting to throw things at fifteen year old girls obsessed with vampires.

 

And also, Derek was the one other person beside Scott and his dad that he felt safe with and Scott had his stupid dad over for some shitty attempt at bonding.

 

Supernatural invisible pentagrams and a very dead mayor? So not something that made Stiles feel safe. At all.

 

So here he is, his coat damp from the twelve feet between his front door and the jeep, sitting in the parking lot and trying to work up the courage to go inside.

 

-x-

 

"Storm getting worse? The medical examiner called, left the message on your desk. Haigh took off for the night," Parrish tells him as soon as he gets back into the station. The office is empty other than him, the little radio on Parrish's desk playing the weather report.

 

"Roads are terrible. One of the Haruma boys crashed into a street light on Grant, but he's okay. Weren't you supposed to be off two hours ago?" The sheriff replies.

 

"Weren't you supposed to be off today entirely?" Parrish retorts with a cheeky grin. And point. He and Stiles had planned to watch movies in the afternoon, just spend the day together. And now he's stuck dealing with a murder and an understaffed office during a winter storm.

 

His phone chimes with and he wants to groan again at the sound. It's just a text, but it probably means that Stiles has snuck away despite his request to stay at home.

 

He's almost satisfied to see he's right. At least something about the day has gone as expected.

 

"You think I wouldn't catch all hell if I didn't investigate the mayor's murder and let you guys handle it? McCall is probably already halfway to getting assigned here again because of this. I wouldn't be surprised if they considered firing me again..."

 

-x-

 

Stiles is aware that it's fairly pathetic to still be sitting in his jeep after an hour. It's not that he is afraid of Derek, but he can't stop thinking about his dreams. He doesn't want to bring it up to Derek, to accidentally say something in reference to one of the incredibly odd dreams he's had since the ice bath. He's afraid of embarrassing himself in front of Derek, which is ridiculous because he's embarrassed himself in front of Derek plenty of times.

 

And maybe it's because his day really has been something kind of terrible that he feels like something more will go wrong if he tries to talk to him.

 

So he's been sitting in his jeep for an hour, staring up at the dimly lit expansive window of Derek's loft and trying to gather up the courage to actually get out of the increasingly colder outside.

 

There's a dusting of snow starting on top of the wet and icy cement when he finally clambers out, slowly building atop it. The temperature difference between his increasingly colder jeep and the outside doesn't feel like much until the wind blows, and then he's desperate to get into the building. It's enough that he runs a little too fast and nearly slips, his shoes not having enough traction. He catches himself at the last second, breathing heavily in obvious white puffs.

 

By the time he makes it inside, his ears are throbbing and his nose hurts. His fingers aren't doing much better under his fairly thin gloves, but he figures if nothing else Derek won't let him go back out in this.

 

He briefly thinks about pulling his hat off and stuffing it into his pocket, but then he decides it can wait until he's ensconced in Derek's hopefully warm apartment. He does tug off his gloves though, shoving them into the right side pocket of his coat before pulling out his phone.

 

No new messages are waiting, his dad's last text still open on the screen. He knows his dad isn't happy with his choice to leave the relative comfort of home, but he doesn't regret having done it. Not yet, at least. He hopes he won't, but his nervousness about the situation doesn't abate as he slips his phone back into the front pocket of his jeans and starts the elevator.

 

He knocks on the door when he reaches it, which is probably a surefire way to make Derek nervous. He doesn't think about that until he's already done it. His usual method of entry almost anywhere is to barge in, and Derek's has never been an exception before now.

 

It takes a minute, but when Derek answers the door, his face is sleep worn and his hair mussed. He's dressed in sweatpants and long sleeves, though his feet are bare on the concrete under them.

 

"Stiles?" He asks through a yawn, his face flushing a little.

 

"Sorry, wasn't expecting you to be asleep. It's only like eight thirty," Stiles replies, looking down at his feet.

 

Derek seems to pick up on something he hasn't said, immediately morphing into awake and aware battle ready Derek.

 

"What happened?"

 

"Someone killed the mayor this morning," he answers.

 

Derek takes a minute to respond and Stiles is certain it's because he's watching him. "You can stay here for the night if you need to. I need to go grocery shopping though, so don't expect me to feed you."

 

Stiles manages an edge of a smile as he looks up at Derek. Maybe he was nervous for nothing after all.


	3. Chapter Two - introspection, darling, makes us hale and hearty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With lovely art this chapter by [ fandom-madnessess ](http://fandom-madnessess.tumblr.com/).

**Chapter Two - _introspection, darling, makes us hale and hearty_**

* * *

 

 

 

> _“We understand. You're not gonna go through this ordeal alone, you know.”_
> 
> _“But that what scares me, Derek! I don't... I don't want see you--any of you--get hurt because of me. It would be better for everyone if I just stayed behind.”_
> 
> _“Mention ordeals, and look what comes along!”_
> 
> _“This is not an ordeal, Boyd, this a gift! Stiles, this the kind of power you've got inside. And it's telling you not to give up. Trust me.”_
> 
> _-x-_

 

In the time after the fire, Derek had noticed things about his older sister that were different. Most of them were small things--she had held herself different, she was harder in her interactions with other people.

 

She had also joined a Renaissance reenactment group in Buffalo out of the blue and spent her weekends in fancy dress until she saved enough money to buy a suit of armor.

 

She had loved that armor, hand polished metal shining in the sunlight. He would come home some nights to see her just rubbing a chamois across it, the faint but ever happy smile on her lips.

 

After she died, he found the armor stashed under the floorboards of her childhood bedroom, wrapped in her favorite blanket. She'd wanted it close, when she returned.

 

But she hadn't wanted him there too.

 

He thinks about that a lot. The more he remembers of _before_ , the more sense it makes. She must have remembered long before left him behind. He doesn’t know if she did it to protect him, or if it was something else entirely.

 

He’s reminded of it, for some reason, when he quietly watches Stiles now. That feeling.

 

The conversation he'd had with Argent when they were both jailed has been weighing heavily in his mind as of late, and he longs to ask Stiles if he had started to remember as well.

 

But he doesn’t. If Stiles hadn't, Derek isn’t sure what he would do, what he would say. Stiles would think he was crazy and Derek knows that he couldn't handle that. Not with Stiles. Maybe that’s exactly why Laura hadn’t. Derek doesn’t think he’ll ever know.

 

So he doesn’t ask. Instead, he watches as Stiles throws his coat over the back of one of his kitchen chairs and takes his wet shoes off.

 

"Thanks," Stiles says a minute later, scratching the back of his head. It’s a normal, natural movement from Stiles, but it doesn’t fit him quite the same without the buzz cut.

 

“Don’t worry about it. Your dad know you’re here?” Derek asks as Stiles settles into the couch, tucking his feet under his legs.

 

“Yeah. He’s not happy I left the house but he’s glad I’m with someone,” Stiles admits.

 

“They know who killed him? The mayor?” Derek asks after a moment of silence, settling into his own seat on his overstuffed chair.

 

“No. It’s definitely supernatural though. Whoever did it drew an inverted pentagram with a V inside it on the clock face. It’s written in some glittery pink crap, but it only shows up on film. None of the digital pictures even remotely show it, and you can’t see it just by looking either. Well technically you couldn’t see anything now anyway, it got washed off by the rain hours ago.”

 

“It must be some kind of magic. I haven't heard of anything like that before, but there are all kinds of cinematic legends about invisible things appearing on film," Derek says, unable to help the smirk when Stiles' surprised smile looks over to him.

 

"Hidden depths, dude. Hidden depths. One of my dad's deputies found something on the clock but none of us are expecting it to come to anything. He can't even see it, just feel it? And all I get when I try researching is a bunch of teenage girls obsessed with sparkly vampires and shit."

 

"I don't think I want to know."

 

Stiles smiles, wide and amused. "You really don't."

 

-x-

 

The glow of the fire casts dancing shadows against her tent. It’s colder than usual, but she makes up for it with an extra pelt across her shoulders. It’s a jackal pelt, though a different color than hers had been _before_. It’s comforting to have, which is why the Elder had given it to her when she had first come back.

 

She knew that it wasn't unusual to have lost her l'Cie, but it feels like a bitter agony to know she had lost hers three times now. And this one would be a permanent loss. Death was different than crystal.

 

She had hated leaving Derek behind in Beacon Hills, even with the knowledge that he would be taking her all the way here to the village. And he had. He had driven her all the way out here and been introduced to her pack with all the polite and gentle kindness that they had been raised with.

 

But she couldn't stay in Beacon Hills and the ghosts of her old pack that lingered on the edge of town, or with the deep and aching knowledge of having failed her l'Cie again.

 

Boyd had trusted her beyond measure, loved her with all his being. She had failed him when she let Erica die and she had failed him when she did not die in his place.

 

Derek was her family and he would always be the most important person in her life, since Boyd was gone.

 

But she needed this village. She needed her tent and the pelt on her shoulders and the flickering firelight. This? This was her penance and her home.

 

The cold clings to her bones suddenly, sharp and bitter.

 

Something is wrong. So wrong.

 

"Lady Cora, you must hide,” a woman’s voice carries through the tent and Cora turns to see the village’s only were-jackal slipping inside.

 

“Tailor? Why are you here? Why do I need to hide?”

 

Tailor is quick to pull the jackal pelt off Cora’s shoulders, stuffing it into her leather bag and snapping the buckles closed without even responding to anything Cora tries to ask.

 

"Lady Cora, you have to get out of here. It's not safe for you. Bran Bal will protect itself, but it cannot protect you too."

 

"Tailor, what is happening? Where is Elder--"

 

"Lady Cora, you need to leave. There is a danger coming for you. The village can hold its own, but we cannot protect you any longer. You _must_ go." Tailor slings the bag across Cora's chest as she says it, pulling on the strap tightly as if emphasizing her words.

 

"Tailor, what is happening!" Cora grabs the other girl's wrist.

 

"There is a kanima after you, Lady Cora. It reeks of death and decay. You have to leave. Now, go!"

 

Cora hesitates, looked for a lie in the other shifter's face. She sees none.

 

"Be safe, Tailor," she finally says. She kisses the other girl softly, her eyes open to take in her face one last time. The surprise on Tailor's face is genuine. Unexpected first kisses tend to do that, Cora supposes.

 

"I love you, jackal girl," Cora tells her simply. She shifts fully and runs from the tent on four lupine legs.

 

-x-

 

"Yeah, Dad. Everything's fine. Derek said I could stay... No, I didn't just invite myself and annoy him until he said yes... I love you too, old man. I'll call you when I head out tomorrow."

 

Derek smirks at Stiles as he speaks, amused with his dad's teasing. The kid looks exhausted, as usual anymore, but his dad seems to be able to brighten his spirits with a few words.

 

"Hey, Derek?" Stiles asks a few minutes later, all semblance of humor gone from his voice and replaced with something akin to fear.

 

"Yeah, Stiles? Everything alright?" Derek gets up from his chair as he asks, settling on the arm of the couch to look at Stiles.

 

"Do you... It's just... I've been having these dreams. At first, I just... The Nogitsune gave me dreams too, so I thought... But these dreams haven't stopped," Stiles trails off, looking upset and confused. It makes something in Derek unsettled, uneasy.

 

"Dreams about what?" Derek asks, refusing to tease Stiles like he usually might have.

 

"There was a train. I was wearing this heavy cloak. It was white and everyone else on the train matched. We were handcuffed, all of us. It felt like a memory, but I'm pretty sure I would know if I was being exiled. The U.S. doesn't just exile people. Well, technically they don't..."

"The Bodhum Purge," Derek interrupts, looking directly at Stiles.

 

>  
> 
> _“You taking tomorrow off?”_
> 
> _“Sir, for my birthday, sir. My brother, Scott, he insisted on it.”_
> 
> _“Twenty-one, huh? Maybe it's a good time to send off that letter of recommendation for officer training.”_
> 
> _“Lieutenant...”_
> 
> _“You're past due for a promotion, Derek. Think of your brother, and your future. And, uh, keep your nose out of trouble.”_
> 
> _“Out of PSICOM business, you mean.”_
> 
> _“Yeah. Nothing good will come of it. Nothing but grief.”_
> 
> -
> 
>  
> 
> _Two days later, Derek walks forward through the crowd, ignoring the panicked breathing and whispers circling around him._
> 
>  
> 
> _He’s in his official Guardian Corps uniform. White coat with tan lining, straps, and pockets. Tan tank top underneath, the same shade. Tan cargo shorts. Black leather gloves, with gold colored metal plates just before his fingers separate. His red cape hangs behind him off one shoulder--it’s definitely one of the most nonsensical parts of the uniform, a cape. It’s never made sense to him, except perhaps as something to cover his mouth with in a fire. His holster is supposed to be that same shade of tan as the rest of tan as his uniform, but he had to buck the system somewhere. Brown leather, instead. His pack is the same color._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Join the end of the line! Attention Purge Deportees! Follow instructions and stay in your lines,” the officer in full PSICOM armor at the front car of the train says, “Your belongings will be returned upon arrival.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _There’s a sudden uprising in noise as a young couple tries to bolt off the platform a few feet ahead. The other PSICOM soldiers immediately raise their guns, a few of them chasing the couple. They give no warning and shoot, a volley of bullets taking the couple down where they stand._
> 
>  
> 
> _People scream, someone’s loud cry says they fired no warning shot. It doesn’t calm the panic at all. The armored officer at the front walks forward with loud, heavy footsteps and says again, his voice angered, “Do not leave your line! This is for your **own** safety!”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Derek continues forward again, skipping the line to speak to the armored officer._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Hmm? What’s the GC doing here,” the officer asks when Derek reaches him, nodding at the Guardian Corps patch on Derek’s shoulder denoting him as a soldier himself, “This op’s under PSICOM direction.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“So direct me,” Derek demands, throwing his head towards the train, “Let me on. I wanna be purged.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _The officer growls a little, steps forward to speak quietly to Derek. “Only civs get purged. Sanctum’s staff and soldiers are exempt.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Then I quit,” Derek replies evenly. He hands over his weapon, ignores the reaction of the crowd around him._
> 
>  
> 
> _The officer growls again, but takes it. “Line up!”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Derek walks to the end of the line in silence. Someone breaks from the line ahead, but doesn’t run. Instead he sweeps in right behind Derek and whispers to him._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Excuse me. Hey, soldier. What gives?”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Derek doesn’t turn, “I volunteered.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Really? You don’t look ready to go quietly into that good night.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“You want quiet? You better take the next train,” Derek replies._
> 
>  
> 
> _The line moves forward, and Derek can only faintly hear the man’s next words. “Huh, now I really want to see what you’re up to.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _It doesn’t matter what the man thinks, what any of them think. Derek had to rescue Scott before they transported everyone to Pulse and out of his reach. This was his only chance to save him, joining the purge._ _  
> _

 

"What?" Stiles’ eyes are wide in surprise.

 

"Do you remember... anything else?"

 

-x-

 

Stiles doesn’t remember much, at least not much clearly. He remembers being a child in Palumpolum, remembers his mother getting sick and dying and his dad remarrying, remembers his stepmother paying for a trip to Bodhum and the terror of the Purge. Remembers knowing that the trip to Pulse would surely end in his death.

 

Everything after that is fragmented, almost blurred. He remembers a survival knife, pressed into his hands by Derek. He remembered hating Isaac, though he had no true recollection as to why.

 

Stiles isn’t sure whether to believe it when Derek tells him that he’s remembering his life _before_. Derek doesn’t blame him. He hadn't been raised to believe in anything and everything the way that Derek had been, and Derek struggles to trust that it was real sometimes, even now.

 

"Stiles, I get it. Just... you can always ask me. If it's real. I wouldn't lie. Not about that. You deserve to know the truth," Derek tells him, looking away for the first time in what felt like hours.

 

"I... Okay... Thanks..."

 

-x-

 

She finally shifts back a few hours later, her paws aching from the hard journey. Her palms and feet bleed slowly, trying to catch up after hours of healing and reopening on hard ground and pointed rocks.

 

Her satchel had stayed attached to her wolf form, though she had been sure she was about to lose it several times. The leather is worn a little thin from where it dragged against the ground, but it’s still intact and usable and that’s all that mattered.

 

She sneaks into a fenced in backyard of a quiet house to change, finding a spare dress in what Tailor had packed her. She doesn’t know where she is exactly, just that her first shift into wolf form shouldn’t have been that easy and that she had never run that fast in her entire life.

 

She’s exhausted, her arms and legs weak and shaky. She wants to rest, to eat and sleep and wake up in the morning to Tailor's smile and forget for a little while that Boyd is dead.

 

But she can’t. There’s a kanima after her, and she has no idea why.

 

She slips on the flats Tailor had packed and starts walking.

 

Her cell phone still reads _No Service_ , but she knows she needs to find somewhere with enough to call Derek.

 

She doesn’t have anyone else anymore, does she?

 

-x-

 

December 23rd starts with the crystal clear sky of the morning after a storm, quiet and still. The air is bitterly cold, but the wind grants reprieve with its quiet.

 

Peter wakes to the mid-morning sunlight streaming through the skylight above his bed, relaxed and well-rested. There’s no hurry to climb out of his sheets, so he doesn’t. Instead, he lingers as the morning draws on, quietly contemplating his plans for the afternoon.

 

He thinks, briefly, of starting early. But in the end, the sweet and unexpected bite of the next part would be too good to rush through.

 

His phone rings, an unobtrusive tinkling of chimes that marks his favored one's call. He rolls over to answer it, smirking as the voice came over the line.

 

"Peter."

 

"Yes, my boy?"

 

"She got away."

 

-x-

 

Derek adjusts the blanket thrown over Stiles' sleeping form before he picks the phone up from the cold concrete. Stiles has a number of missed calls, three from his dad and one from Scott, but no voicemails. Derek can only assume the sheriff was just trying to check in, but he hardly wants to invade Stiles' privacy by checking the texts either way. He scrolls through the contacts until he finds the Sheriff’s number and taps the numbers into his own cell phone before flipping Stiles' phone to silent and putting it back down on the floor.

 

"Sheriff Stilinski," a rough, sleep worn voice answers.

 

"Sir, this is Derek Hale--"

 

"Hale. What happened?" There’s a worry carried over in the sheriff's voice, which immediately lost the tired edge and gone right into awake and aware.

 

"Nothing, Sheriff. I just wanted to let you know that Stiles was still sleeping."

 

There is silence for a long beat before the sheriff finally spoke again. "He's asleep?"

 

Derek isn’t sure he likes the faint note of surprise at that prospect.

 

"He fell asleep around one this morning. Other than snoring on and off, he's slept pretty hard on my couch."

 

"Oh, thank god," the sheriff whispers and Derek gets the distinct impression that he isn't supposed to have heard it.

 

Derek sleeps for a bit, but mostly he stays awake and thinks about everything that’s happened. About everything that’s happening _now._ He’s only been awake for about half an hour when he senses Stiles waking in the early afternoon, blinking blearily as he came to slowly. He sits up a lot more slowly that Derek had expected, stretching his arms out with a wide yawn.

 

"You're looking extra creepy, staring at me sleeping, dude," Stiles says, the hint of a smile on his face. Derek has to fight back his own answering grin.

 

"I heard your breathing change. I haven't spent all morning watching you," Derek retorts, picking his book back up in an exaggerated gesture.

 

" _Twilight_? You're kidding right? Please tell me Cora left that here," Stiles demands, looking disappointed in Derek's choice of reading material. Derek can’t blame him.

 

He waits a moment in complete silence as Stiles stares at him before slipping the dust cover off to reveal a worn copy of Frankenstein.

 

"You... What even are you?" Stiles sputters, laughter in his voice. Derek lets the smile cross his face then, finding comfort in the fact that he'd made Stiles laugh.

 

After a while, they return to their attempt at finding answers to their latest mystery. Derek scours books that are, by and large, fairly useless. Stiles hijacks his computer, typing quickly and often, but neither of them are as silent as they might have been only hours before.

 

It’s easy for them to get lost in their research and occasional joint reminiscing of a past that seems even more fantastical than the one they live in now, which is why Derek nearly drops his book when his phone suddenly rings.

 

"My kid still with you, Hale?" The sheriff's voice echoes through the phone. Derek crooks a finger at Stiles where he sits sprawled across the couch with the laptop, various internet searches going in multiple tabs.

 

"Yeah, he's researching on my laptop. Here," Derek answers, handing the phone over to Stiles.

 

"Hello? Oh, hey Dad... No, I didn't even know it was on silent. What's--seriously? Do you think it's--no, of course. Did Parrish take pictures with a film camera? Yeah, that's how Caitlin... Uh, I don't know. I could call her, see if she used a darkroom or went to like Wal-Mart or something? Yeah, give me like fifteen minutes. Love you too."

 

Stiles looks a little dazed as he hands Derek's phone back to him before turning back to find his own phone.

 

"What happened?"

 

"The turnaround for principals at BHHS sucks this year. My dad said someone drowned him in his bathtub, fully clothed. His kid found him. Just a sec," Stiles answers. He stops to lift his phone to his ear.

 

"Hey, Caitlin? Stiles, here. I have kind of a weird question for you..."

 

-x-

 

Peter smirks as the medical examiner wheels the body out of the tidy little house, taking in the shocked and surprised faces of neighbors. One of the sheriff's deputies has his arm around a terrified looking child, a skinny little thing with wide brown eyes and beauty marks on her face. She could practically be a little female Stiles.

 

He couldn't have planned it any better.

 

"Where is the poor girl going to go? She's an orphan now..."

 

"I heard her father didn't have any siblings. I hope she at least has a grandparent out there. Losing both parents this quickly..."

 

"I bet this is another murder. They really need to let us elect a new sheriff. Stilinski can't handle his son, let alone..."

 

Everything is falling beautifully into place.

 

He shifts on his feet and heads back to his bike. He pulls out his phone as he reaches it, scrolling to the Ms in his contact list and starting a call.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Come back. I don't think we'll need to worry about her. She'll be too busy watching her back to make it here in time to warn anyone."

 

"You sure? I'm getting close to her scent again."

 

"Positive. You can take Cora out if you've got time once she arrives."

 

-x-

 

The jeep refuses to start. Derek doesn't mind. He enjoys Stiles' company--perhaps more than he'd expected. They hadn't had much time to spend together since the summer, and he was happy to realize it wasn't as awkward as he'd feared.

 

Stiles apparently remembers something that has him occasionally flushing when he looks at Derek, but his general demeanor and teasing doesn’t change. It speaks to Stiles' strength, and perhaps, also, to his growing maturity. Not that either one of them would likely admit any of that.

 

Derek had dropped Stiles off at the police station while he scavenged some quite heavily picked over shelves at the closest grocery store. He wasn't sure if Stiles would be coming back with him, but suspected he might given the situation. Stiles was still afraid of being by himself over the evening sometimes, and Derek knew it would definitely be worse tonight.

 

They have proof, this time, of the sticky shimmery _invisible_ \--well, stuff for lack of a better word. Caitlin, who Derek is at a complete loss as to knowing, had apparently pulled through with some dark room time at _The Beacon Star_ and gotten Deputy Parrish's pictures developed. It wouldn't hold up in court, but then none of them expected it too.

 

Derek isn't sure how much Deputy Parrish knows of the supernatural world, but given his willingness to keep things quiet, the sheriff's trust in him, and his apparent staunch defense of Stiles, he’s guessing it’s at least something.

 

Derek pulls up in front of the sheriff's station just in time for Stiles to fly out _without his coat on,_ flannel overshirt flapping behind him like coat tails.

 

Stiles jumps in the passenger seat without even saying a word, his body tense and his face an angry mask.

 

"What happened?" Derek asks as Stiles flips the lock button on his door and buckles himself in.

 

Derek is in the middle of pulling out of the parking lot when he notices Scott's father storm out of the sheriff's station, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his fist. Derek catches his eyes, watches the man take in him and Stiles with a surprised look on his face.

 

"Did you punch him?" Derek asks, finally pulling away. Stiles snorts.

 

"Did you know that I'm a psychopath with anger control issues?" Stiles asks, his breathing finally slowed, his heartbeat back to usual.

 

"He thinks you're the one killing people."

 

"No, he _knows_ I'm the one doing it. That's not why I punched him though."

 

"He thinks you're a psychopathic serial killer and he said something worse than--"

 

"He said Scott's mom was an idiot for letting me anywhere near him."

 

"Is he trying to bait you?"

 

"I don't know. Melissa doesn't deserve that though. I didn't appreciate her as much as I should have... before. And she's even more amazing now."

 

Derek stops in front of Scott's house just as his phone starts to ring. He shows Stiles Cora's name on the screen and nods towards the door. Stiles hesitates for a minute as Derek answers, but Derek turns the car off and hands him the keys instead of promising to stay. It works just as well.

 

"Derek?" Cora's voice is hoarse and pitched oddly. Stiles is already halfway to the front door.

 

"Cora, what's up?"

 

Cora's heartbeat is suddenly loud and frantic over the phone. Derek feels himself fall into battle mode, his body tensing.

 

And no, he is never going to admit to anyone, especially Stiles, that he calls it _battle mode_ in his head

 

"I--I'm coming home. I can't. The village..." Cora breaks off with a twisted little sob.

 

"Something happened to the village?"

 

"Tailor told me there was a kanima, Derek. And it was coming for me. I haven't stopped running since."


	4. Chapter Three - Oh, the Stench of Death That Lingers

 

**Chapter Three - _Oh, the Stench of Death That Lingers_**

* * *

 

 

> _“The Purge is PSICOM's baby. Our military is split into two arms: the Public Security and Intelligence Command, known as PSICOM, and the Guardian Corps. I was Guardian Corps, Bodhum security regiment.”_
> 
> _“Wait, but I don't get it. If you're not PSICOM, then why did you board the train?” Stiles doesn’t understand why Derek would chose that, chose the path that was supposed to be their exile, their death._
> 
> _“For Scott. I had to rescue Scott before they transported the Vestige to Pulse, and out of my reach. My only chance to save him was to join the Purge.”_
> 
> _“You're telling me that you got on that train so you can save your brother? That's crazy. I could never do something like that.”_
> 
> _“It's not a question of can or can't. There are some things in life you just **do**.”_

_-x-_

 

As a child, Malia had always been tactile. Hugs, cuddling, touching. That was just part of who she was. When things changed, she didn't have that. She had nothing but survival and the inherent need to protect her own then.   
  
For a long time, her own only meant her sister's things scavenged from the car and the hole she'd made her den.  
  
She isn't happy as a human. She’s woefully behind her peers in a lot of things and she doesn’t recognize herself in the mirror. She doesn't understand a lot of the things she is supposed to know, things that she should have learned naturally.  
  
In the woods, there had been no good and bad. There hadn't been morality or consequences. There had been her, alone.  
  
She’s aware that she isn't making the best choices with her life now. Basing some things off what she remembered and others on what her body told her to do made a lot of things more difficult and complicated than they should be.  
  
It isn't that she regrets all of her choices. She feels some degree of guilt over what she'd done with Stiles in that dirty basement, but when she remembers how much she'd cared about him she hadn't much cared.  
  
The disconnect bothers her. The dreams bother her. She knows entirely too much about math and science for someone stuck as a coyote for as much of her adolescence as she was, and even then.

 

She dreams of another life every night she rests her head, a life where she was older and wiser. She thought the dreams would stop once she learned to control the shift but they haven't.  
  
She knows nothing of history and English beyond what she'd been taught as a child before the accident, but the dreams leave her with an incredibly vast knowledge of how the world works. In theory anyway. She hasn't tested much of it out. There aren’t creatures called fal'Cie here, and she’s afraid to find it had been nothing more than a dream after all. That maybe she'd heard someone talking in the woods and imagined up a fantastical world where she was a scientist.  
  
It made her waking life even more difficult.  
  
Some days she longs for the life from her dreams, working alongside Stiles as they grow older together. Not that they'd been dating in them, though sometimes she'd truly wanted that. They'd slept together a few times over the years in her sleeping life, but Stiles had been hopelessly slaving over his attempts to rescue his friends and do what he could to help Scott reach his brother.   
  
Which, she wonders why things are so radically different in the reality of daylight.  
  
She isn't actually in her twenties. She’s just a teenager who sometimes had the mentality of an eight year old and sometimes of a coyote.

 

And sometimes, she remembers the feel of Stiles holding her tightly. Of him pressing kisses to her skin. And she _wants_.

 

The only thing Stiles seems to remember was that night, hidden away in the basement of the hospital. He doesn't seem to have any recollection of the world in her dreams, just their ill-conceived make out and touch fest.

 

He doesn't seem to remember the same _them_ that she had, when her head is too fuzzy between sleep and awake to realize what she’s doing or saying. But he let her curl up with him and just touch. It wasn't sexual--not that she would have minded that--but just the press of another body and the beat of another heart alongside her own. Tactile, like she'd remembered of her childhood.

 

When she climbs through his bedroom window that night, he isn't alone. She hadn't told him she was coming, but she didn't usually and he didn't ever have anyone over this late.

 

Tonight is apparently an exception.

 

Stiles is sitting in front of his computer, a dark haired figure over his shoulder. Malia doesn’t recognize him, but the way Stiles was just _with_ him, said that he knows the man well.

 

Stiles is at ease and comfortable and relaxed in a way that she hasn’t seen him since before in her dreams, if even then.

 

“Stiles?” She knows it comes out softer and more hesitant than she’d expected, but she can’t help but feel off.

 

Stiles jumps a little in surprise, the man calmly pressing a hand on his shoulder to calm him. They turn to face her together, Stiles making no effort to brush the man’s hand away.

 

“Malia. What are you...” Stiles starts to ask. He cuts himself off with a strange, almost startled noise before continuing, “Doing here?”

 

Malia doesn’t miss the way the man looks over Stiles then, a little puzzled but mostly protective.

 

“I don’t like the winter,” she replies, as if it answers everything. To her it does, but the man with Stiles does not seem assuaged by her words.

 

“This is Malia...?” the man asks Stiles. Malia can smell the wolf in him, and wonders if this is a pack friend.

 

Or an older one.

 

“Yeah. Did Scott tell you...?” Stiles asks the man, before gesturing towards her.

 

She knows what is being asked then.

 

“I’m told Peter Hale is my father,” she announces. The man’s eyes flicker with something she cannot name.

 

“You can’t trust anything he tells you to be true.” The man states, hard-edged and matter of fact.

 

“Actually, Stiles told me,” she replies. The man looks at Stiles, surprise in his face for a moment before it shuts down.

 

“Were you going to tell me?" the man asks Stiles. Malia feels uncomfortable with the sudden tension.

 

"I didn't think about it--I'm sorry! I honestly thought Scott would have told you, you guys have been--"

 

"You didn't tell me something incredibly important, _about my family,_ but you told your girlfriend?"

 

"I'm not his--"

 

"She's not my girlfriend!" Stiles finishes, reaffirming her interrupted reply.

 

"Your bed smells like her, Stiles. Don't lie to me," the man says. He’s in distress, the smell alone would tell her that.

 

"I'm not lying! Derek, why are you getting so upset--"

 

"I'm sorry, Stiles. I'm going to go," Malia interrupts, making for a quick getaway.

 

The man stops her at the window with a hand around her wrist.

 

He doesn't say anything, but she can guess what that look means.

 

_Hurt him and you die._

 

Hardly going to be an issue, she thinks.

 

She'd already hurt him once, a lifetime ago. She isn't going to let her insecurities do the same this time.

 

\---

 

Lydia breathes deeply, keeping her eyes tightly closed. It had taken hours to set everything up, painstakingly draw every tiny mark and line in the circle of damp earth. She knows she'll catch hell if anyone catches her in the cemetery after dark, especially since she'd ripped up the sod from in front of the headstone. Her hands are caked with dried mud and grass, but she doesn't care about her manicure or the possible night in jail. Not right now.

 

Her chest burns with the need to bring Allison back, like a terrible ache in her heart that refuses to dissipate. She'd researched for weeks, staying up late into the night until she had to fall asleep or risk falling asleep in class. And nothing had worked. Nothing really felt like it would.

 

Until she'd found the little old book in a box in her own attic, her grandmother's scrawl across the first page.

 

_Paddra Nsu Lydia._

 

She had known in that moment, touching her fingers across the black ink, that it was her name. Her full name, her real name. The nightmares and dreams she'd had were memories of a life before, of lives before. All that death and agony and pain and chaos. And now, she was born anew.

 

But this time was her last time. This time was supposed to be her gift for her service, her sacrifice.

 

And she knew then that she had to make this life worth it.

 

And what would her life be without Allison? They hadn't met in their life before, except at the end. But Lydia would have treasured every tiny drop of her time with her had she known.

 

She had loved Jackson with every bit of her being in so many lives before, and she loved Jackson and Jordan in equal and different measures in her last one. But she felt like Allison was her sister in a way that her older sister never had. And it wasn't that she didn't love Rebecca, but they were too different in too many ways for her to ever truly get her.

 

If she could do this, draw this symbol from her grandmother's book in the mud and dirt above Allison's grave, pull from every part of herself whatever banshee power lay within her, and will it so, she could have that missing piece of herself back. She knows she could.

 

She crouches down in the center of the circle, goes down on her knees and slams her palms into the ground at the top of the dirt tree and her whole world shakes. Everything goes white and then everything goes dark.

 

Lydia blinks as the world comes back, everything feeling like shifting sand around her. Her nose is bleeding, drops of blood falling across her lips, and she wipes at it with the back of her hand as she reaches around in her jacket pocket for her gloves. They’re expensive and warm, but she doesn't have much else to staunch the unexpected bleeding.

 

Her ears ring for several minutes as she struggles to stand, but once she stands straight everything rights itself again.

 

There’s no sign that Allison's grave had been disturbed, other than the now completely dried dirt and the pattern of tiny purple flowers sprouting from where she'd drawn every line and mark.

 

Allison's body isn’t lying there, and somehow Lydia knows immediately that although she had done _something_ , Allison is still dead and her body is still below the soles of her feet.

 

She starts to cry, standing in the center of a circle of tiny violets and grave dirt. The moon, nothing but a sliver of silver light before tomorrow's new moon, seems brighter than it rightfully should.

 

And then she sees the feathers. Large white feathers, edged in pale green. They lead away from Allison's headstone, not more than ten feet. To another grave.

 

And a naked woman's body, lain carefully in the manner of the dead.

 

Lydia can see the uneven raised red ridge of a scar across the woman's torso, wrapped around to her back, where though she couldn't see, Lydia knows it would completely surround her.

 

This woman had been cut in half. And now she isn't.

 

Her hair is a myriad of shades of dusty brown and grey, as if she had gracefully aged before her death. Her body tells a different, much younger story.

 

The headstone tells the rest.

 

_Laura Hale._

 

_-x-_

 

Malia shivers as the wind picks up, huddling herself further into her jacket.

 

She wants to shift, wants badly to shift. To change into her coyote form and huddle down in a den and not move for hours.

 

But she can't. She’s afraid to, afraid of not changing back again.

 

For all that her shifted form makes things simple, it made living harder.

 

Or perhaps it had always been the other way around.

 

The shift in the wind brings an unfamiliar scent to her. It smells of decay and vomit and something unfamiliar that makes her want to yowl in protest at the thought of it.

 

"You. You're not human," a voice asks. Malia freezes, fear running through her.

 

The coyote screams _run_ but the human screams _don't move_.

 

"I think he'll like you quite much. Visiting the Stilinski house when daddy's playing detective, leaving through the window in the dark of night."

 

There’s a man in front of her. He’s old and thin, his skin almost translucent it was so pale. He smiles at her with purple-black teeth.

 

"Yes, I think he'd quite like you to join him indeed."

 

_-x-_

 

She'd managed to get the woman inside her house with some difficulty, her mother stepping in to help carry her up the stairs when she found Lydia attempting it on her own. She'd dressed her in a spare change of clothes from her car, and Lydia wasn't nearly as tall as she is.

 

She managed to get her mom away with murmuring of drinking and Allison, and once her mom headed back to bed, Lydia took a shower and then headed into her bedroom with a warm washcloth to wash the dirt off the woman too.

 

The woman doesn't wake the entire time. Lydia tucks her under the blankets and steals a pillow from the couch downstairs, settling in for a night of uncomfortable napping until she does.

 

-x-

 

Laura wakes to birdsong. It seemed like such a simple thing, but in that moment she is totally and utterly terrified.

 

She remembers the bite of teeth in her flesh and sharp claws slicing through her. And then, _nothing._ Whatever afterlife there was, _if there was_ , isn't something she remembered.

 

She just knew that one minute she was dead. And then, birdsong.

 

She opens her eyes to the ceiling of a teenage girl's bedroom. It smells like expensive perfume and hairspray, and faintly of wolfsbane.

 

It doesn't help.

 

"I don't think I have anything that's going to fit you," a voice says and Laura has to blink a few times as she looks around before she can find the owner.

 

There's a girl sitting in the chair next to the bed, a large book open in her lap. Her hair is a lighter shade of red, and it's immaculately pinned back from her pretty face. Laura thinks she's probably in her late teens, but she's never been terribly good at that kind of estimation.

 

"Wha--" Laura tries to ask, but her throat feels raw and dry and the words catch.

 

"You weren't who I was... expecting. I wasn't sure if you'd wake up soon or not, so I could hardly call and let your family know you were... here again. What if you... didn't wake up at all? And I wanted to be sure, anyway..." From the flustered and slightly embarrassed look on the girl's face, Laura gathers she isn't usually prone to rambling every thought like she is. But the girl's heartbeat is steady and even for the most part, only kicking up when she first started speaking. Laura is inclined to believe it was raw honesty that has her stumbling over her own tongue.

 

Laura nods slowly. The girl smiles a little.

 

"Can you tell me your name? I mean, I have my suspicions on exactly who you are but I need... to be sure, you know?"

 

“Laura.”

 

“Hale?” the girl asks, her face softening in relief. Laura nods again, and sinks back into the pillows underneath her head.

 

“I’m going to let your brother know you’re here. Well, Stiles. I don't exactly have conversations with Derek. That's what Scott and Stiles are for."

 

Laura doesn't know who Scott or Stiles are to Derek now. She knows who they were to him once. The two most important people in his life. But she can't even remember meeting Scott this time through, and Stiles--Stiles had only been a momentary connection.

 

Laura watches as the girl pulls out her cellphone, standing against her vanity as if it were a lifeline. The girl shifts her head a little as she brings the phone to her ear and something in Laura just clicks.

 

She remembers her in the life before. Remembers being saved by the power of her will.

 

Not because the girl had cared for her, but because Laura could make a difference in Derek's quest.

 

And she had.

 

"Paddra-Nsu--" Laura starts, and the girl’s eyes go wide in surprise.

 

"What did you--no, Stiles. I didn't mean you. Look, I need you to bring me some clothes. No, I'm not naked! Bring me something of Derek's if you can. Otherwise your stuff should work. I'm at my house. Be quick about it."

 

The girl finally hangs up, staring at the floor a moment. Then she looks up and her face immediately morphs into something interrogatory.

 

"How do you know that name?"

 

Laura relaxes.

 

\---

 

Erica does not regret her life. Neither one of them.

 

She doesn’t regret the part she played in saving Cocoon, in holding the world up with Boyd for centuries, encased in crystal. She doesn’t regret the Soulsong, though she is ever happy that Boyd helped her from destroying the billions of souls she called to her side at the end of all things. And she doesn’t regret fighting their god, fighting Bhunivelze at the end of that, doesn’t regret being alongside the people she loved while they fought for the right to be reborn in a new world.

 

She doesn’t regret taking the bite, carving out a piece of the world for herself in curves and cleavage and fangs and blood.

 

She doesn’t regret the feral snap of the moonsickness that brought the barrage of memories of her time before to her as she was trapped in that vault with Boyd and Cora.

 

She didn’t want to die then. Didn’t want to die before Boyd, because it wasn’t fair that Boyd was always the one who tried to protect her at all costs, to be with her no matter what.

 

But she did die then, and she doesn’t regret the action that brought her to that end.

 

The afterlife is strange. She doesn’t know if death is the same for everyone or if her death is different. The little piece of the forest she resides in is dark, but there are silver-blue crystals scattered about that bring enough light to see by.

 

She doesn’t need to eat or drink here. There is no point, and even if there were, there is nothing she recognizes as food.

 

When Boyd dies, they make a home together in the dark woods, spend their nights at the pool by their shelter and watch the ones they left behind in the silver-blue of the water.

 

She feels settled here, in death.

 

Until things change, once again. Allison Argent finds their little haven and as much as the part of her from her second life wants to deny her, the part of her from before wants to take her in and protect her.

 

Boyd takes the decision out of her hands and she does not regret it as they give Allison a home in their mutual death.

 

But the longer Allison is with them, the more Erica feels a foreboding ache in her bones. Something is happening, something is changing and it feels electric and dangerous and _wrong_.

 

“Erica!” Allison’s voice calls and Erica runs from the shelter to their pool where Allison is crouched next to Boyd.

 

And in the water is Peter Hale and reflected in the water are three faces full of terror.

 

The god they fought and battled for the right to live, to be reborn, is smiling.

 

Bhunivelze’s pointed grin is recognizable even in death.

 

 


	5. Chapter Four - We Wear Our Grief In Silence

 

**Chapter Four - _We Wear Our Grief In Silence_**

* * *

 

 

> _“No. Please, no...” Scott yells, stumbling over a body in his haste to get somewhere safe, “Derek, help me!”_
> 
>   
>  _Braeden blasts away the oversized bug-monster with her shotgun and takes Scott’s hand._  
> 
> 
> _“Get ahold of yourself! Derek can't protect you anymore. You have to look after yourself now. Do you hear me? Your brother’s dead. He can't help you!” Braeden berates him._
> 
>  
> 
> _She’s knocked back by another monster, Scott nearly getting hit alongside her. “Braeden!”_  
> 
> 
> _More of the monsters swarm them, and Scott is surrounded. Braeden lies still on the ground._
> 
>  
> 
> _“You want him?” a man’s voice cuts through the din of the battle, “Then you're gonna have to go through me!”_
> 
>  
> 
> _Jordan Parrish lands in the dirt in front of Scott, and though he seems familiar Scott can’t immediately place him._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Get up, Scott.”_
> 
>   
>  _“You were in my dream. I saw you.”_  
> 
> 
> _“Save it for later,” the man says, handing him a familiar looking katana, “Can you fight?”_
> 
> _  
> Scott takes the blade reluctantly, “If I have to...”_
> 
> _  
> “You're gonna have to. One more thing...” he says as he draws his own weapon, “Don't ever lay down and wait to die!”_

 

 

-x-

 

The old man forces her to her knees in front of Peter Hale. He doesn’t quite fit what she remembers from the pictures Stiles had shown her. His face doesn’t fit right. She doesn’t know how to explain the sense of wrongness that the man is exuding, only that it is.

 

“ _Vulture_. What vile creature have you brought me? She stinks of _coyote_ and fear,” Peter asks, and her skin crawls.

 

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lies, staring straight up at him without flinching back like she wants to.

 

“Oh, you’re a brave one aren’t you? What’s the brave little bitch’s name?”

“Didn’t ask. Caught her sneaking out of the Stilinski house using the window,” the old man--Vulture?--answers. Malia can hear the amusement in his tone and she hates it.

 

“Leave us. Don’t interrupt unless my boy returns from his hunt.” Peter grins down at her, and it’s as if he has a thousand pointed teeth in his mouth even though that’s impossible.

 

She can hear Vulture leaving, but she refuses to look away from her father.

 

This is a test. This is her trial and if she loses, she knows she won’t survive.

 

It might be her body on the clocktower next.

 

“Who _are_ you?” he asks her with obvious interest.

 

She takes a long minute, tries to place why he disconcerts her so.

 

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” she says and it’s true. Stiles told her it would be a bad idea, a dangerous one.

 

But it might be the only thing that saves her now.

 

“You’re going to anyway. Curious,” Peter says, reaching out his hand to take hers.

 

She lets him.

 

“Malia... Malia Hale.”

 

-x-

 

He isn’t used to being alone. He hadn’t been alone in so terribly long that the loss of someone nearby made him feel disconnected from the world, from himself.

 

He’d separated from Isaac a few days before at Isaac’s request. He feels like he should have asked, prodded Isaac for an answer to where he was going off by himself, but in the end he hadn’t.

 

He doesn’t _understand_ wanting to be alone, but he knows based on the past few weeks that Isaac did. Isaac is used to silence, to being by himself. Sometimes the kid craved company, but mostly he liked his solitude. He could respect that, even though he didn’t get it.

 

Chris hasn’t been this alone since he was eighteen, freshly graduated and away from his parents for the first time. And anyway, as it were, he’d met Victoria that summer at the compound in France. She was beautiful and funny, but there wasn’t a spark between them that would spawn a lasting relationship. They both knew that.

 

They’d been married the next summer, falling into line with his father’s commands like the soldiers they’d both been trained to be. He grew to love her over the years, of course, but it was never the kind of love that marriage was supposed to be, never the kind of love that meant forever. She was his best friend, but they were never lovers.

 

Chris hadn’t wanted to be a hunter. He had always been obsessed with planes and dreamed of becoming a pilot. His father had other plans, of course, and he tried to push back what he wanted in order to be the perfect soldier his father wanted. Most of the time, he felt more like they were best friends who were never meant for more, and sleeping next to her felt natural but never sexual. Victoria had admitted to him once before they’d married--when they were friends and nothing more--that she was asexual (though at the time, they hadn't the words for it), that she would never want to sleep with him. So with their marriage, they played up their relationship for the sake of his father’s will and it was okay.

 

They were as happy as they could be, given the circumstances.

 

His father had gotten suspicious when Victoria had not gotten pregnant despite several years of marriage, and they were both a little afraid of what might happen to their carefully constructed lives if he found out.

 

Ultimately, they’d found an answer that satisfied them. Allison was conceived via in vitro fertilization, and Chris felt for the first time like something had gone right in his life.

 

After she was born, Victoria threw herself back into hunting with fervour, and it was Chris who spent most of his time raising her.

 

Victoria loved their daughter, but she was incredibly detached. He didn’t know the reason why, if there even was one. He hadn’t asked her, almost afraid to find out the answer. Some parts of Victoria had been that way as long as he’d known her, clinically detached--perhaps compartmentalized was more appropriate. He hadn’t known Victoria as a child to know if she had always been that way or if...

 

It was a blessing in their line of work, but perhaps a curse in their relationship.

 

The older Allison grew, the more time Victoria spent with her. Once Allison was able to start taking martial arts classes and pulling back a bow, Victoria seemed to get along better with her.

 

Chris had always been proud of her ability, of what she could do. But he didn’t want to raise her like the two of them had been raised. Sometimes he wasn’t so sure that Victoria agreed.

 

Sometimes, even with his daughter, the loneliness crept up on him until he felt like he was being strangled. Victoria allowed him his indulgences as long as he never endangered their lifestyle or risked his father finding out about it. He wasn’t a perfect man, and Victoria knew that. He knew that.

 

He fell in love for the first time when Allison was sixteen years old, feeling out of his depth and somehow okay with it. She hadn’t stayed, and neither of them had expected the relationship to last. Too many differences in their lives.

 

And then a few weeks later, Victoria told him they were moving to Beacon Hills and his life drastically changed.

 

His girlfriend had left him on Christmas Eve the year before, and early in the morning a year to that date he’s coming back into Beacon Hills, back to where he’d lost the rest of his family entirely.

 

He’s so alone and he feels it like an ache through his bones.

 

All he has left are memories of a life before, and he hopes they’ll be enough to find peace.

 

-x-

 

He’s exhausted by the time he gets home. The house is dark, but he knows Stiles isn’t alone. Derek Hale’s car is parked behind the jeep, and Stiles had warned him hours before anyway.

 

It’s early in the morning, the sunrise peeking through trees enough to cast a faint glow into the living room. He takes off his shoes and collapses on the couch, not willing to take the energy to traverse up the stairs yet.

 

The television flickers on after two failed clicks of the remote, and an infomercial about banana bunkers plays in the silence of the room.

 

He switches through a few channels before he settles on an early morning episode of _Criminal Minds_ and kicks his feet up on the coffee table.

 

Claudia had bought the coffee table from a garage sale a few weeks before she started getting ill. They’d taken it in the backyard and sanded the bright yellow paint off until only wood remained, then they’d stained it together while Stiles was in school.

 

It felt like the last good memory he’d had of her, giggling into her elbow after she’d swiped her brush on the wood into a phallic shape. He’d looked at the smile on her face and fell in love with her all over again.

 

He misses her so much. Some days are harder than others.

 

He focuses on the television again, listens as the characters on screen speak.

 

_“Promise me that you will tell him how we met, and how you used to make me laugh."_

 

_"Haley..."_

 

_"He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron. I want him to believe in love, because it... it is the most important thing... but you need to show him. Promise me!"_

 

He turns off the tv and heads upstairs.

 

Some days are a lot harder than others.

 

Stiles’ door is open, and he steps a few inches inside. His son is asleep on his bed, quiet and still. Derek is asleep beside him on the floor, back pressed against the edge of the bed.

 

He shuts the door behind him when he leaves, satisfied.

 

-x-

 

It's dark when she opens her eyes. The curtains are still tightly shut from the last night she'd been able to sleep in her own bed without being interrupted by a night shift, probably close to two weeks ago.

 

Her bedroom is empty and cold, though even without the expectation of a warm body beside her she feels a keen loss.

 

It's been a long time since she had someone. Dating hadn't been a priority in a long time, and before that it was difficult to spend any actual time with Rafe. She doesn't count the aborted date with _Peter Hale,_ because she can't. Even if they’d actually managed to go out, she wouldn’t be able to make herself count it now.

 

But the more time that passes--the more entrenched she becomes in the life Scott is leading now--the deeper she feels that loss.

 

Sometimes she lies awake at night and pretends that whatever this tenuous thing between her and the Sheriff is, that's it's real and measured and something.

 

As much as she would enjoy having regular sex again, what she misses most is that steady companionship.

 

Maybe it's wrong of her to take whatever the Sheriff gives her. He's still in love with his wife and she knows that, but sometimes he's just there when no one else is.

 

She's had these daydreams of them married before. Ever since Rafe started to drink heavily when Scott was little, before Claudia got sick, and before she really knew him at all. They always felt more vivid than a daydream, which had always been a ridiculous thought but that never stopped her from having them.

 

Sometimes Stiles was in those daydreams too, but never Scott and once she realized that she'd put a firm foot down on the brakes and refused to contemplate it anymore. Something she wished she'd had the courage to do when she first started dreaming about marrying the Sheriff.

 

They've been happening again and every time Scott is gone but Stiles is there and he's still so painfully young and she doesn't get it.

 

Sometimes she dreams about it at night. Falls asleep curled up and sated next to a warm body only to wake up to reality in a cold bed and totally alone.

 

And the dream she's just woken from is worse, somehow.

 

She dreamed of the news reporting a purge of the city of Bodhum, of intense terror and fear for the Sheriff and Stiles. She dreamed of Stiles showing up bloody and beaten, a black brand on his skin, a handful of strangers at his side (not strangers--Derek and Boyd and Isaac).

 

 

> _She loves her husband. That’s just a fact. When Claudia was dying, she'd promised her that she would take care of him and Stiles. She never expected to fall in love with him, but she got the impression when she thought back to it, that Claudia had hoped so._
> 
>  
> 
> _Stiles... Stiles had always been a handful, even for Claudia and his father together. She knew that going in. She also knew that she loved Stiles as if he was her own, with time. She had been married for two years when she realized just how much she loved the family she had made and how much better it could be if Stiles could accept her fully. He was growing up, and with her husband’s promotion to a highly ranked Palumpolum Guardian Corps officer, she knew that they only had one more chance to truly spend time together before things changed. She wanted the opportunity for Stiles to finally see her as someone who loved and cared for him, instead of just his mother’s friend who loved his father._
> 
>  
> 
> _She put together a trip for the two of them, begged off joining by picking up a few extra shifts with the chemist, and watched the two of them leave with a smile on her face._
> 
>  
> 
> _When news of the Purge in Bodhum reached her, it twisted her insides until she felt like she couldn’t breathe. Would anyone tell her if Stiles and her husband had still been there? Would anyone else care?_
> 
>  
> 
> _When she finally sees her Stiles again, he’s dirty. He’s wearing the jacket she bought him for his birthday, but it’s stained with blood and grime. There’s a cut under his eye that hasn’t fully healed yet and there’s a knife clipped on his waistband._
> 
>  
> 
> _Most telling, she thinks, is the twisted metal bar strapped to his back._
> 
>  
> 
> _His father is not with him._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Stiles, sweetheart...?” She tries to be calm when she asks but the panic is building._
> 
>  
> 
> _“He’s dead.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _She loved her husband, dearly. But she knows that Stiles would always love him more._
> 
>  
> 
> _He flinches from her touch._
> 
>  
> 
> _With that, Melissa Stilinski finally falls apart._
> 
>  
> 
> _The gift of time she'd tried to give her boys turned into a curse._

 

 

She never does see Scott in these dreams, at night or otherwise. She doesn't understand why.

 

She wonders if it has something to do with Scott or if there is a part of her that--no, she refuses to think there is any part of her that would not move heaven and earth to protect Scott, to love him and raise him.

 

Whatever reason her dreams have for writing him out must be for a reason, right? Trying to tell her something, something important.

 

The ache of loneliness is replaced by the sudden and terrible fear that something is going wrong, some dark thing is coming upon them and these dreams are some ever increasing portent of it.

 

She dresses quickly, leaves her hair down in messy curls, and leaves her bedroom to find her son.

 

-x-

 

“Derek, no. She’s not mad at you, trust me. You were upset and I don’t think--”

 

“I saw her and _ran away_. She has every right to be mad at me.”

 

The Sheriff sighs as he rubs the sleep from his face, trying to figure out how long they let him sleep before they woke to _argue_.

 

“She’s your sister, Derek. Laura is _alive_ , and she’s not upset that you panicked and left. It’s been what, a year since you last saw her? And she was _dead_. You were already worked up because Cora’s in trouble, and _oh my god._ Laura doesn’t know about Cora, does she?”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek mutters and the Sheriff finds himself agreeing as he walks through the doorway into Stiles’ bedroom.

 

“Good morning boys.”

 

-x-

 

“You’re just going to believe she’s your daughter? She consorts with Stilinski.”

 

“Stiles isn’t clever enough to plan something like this. And even if he was, I have a test to determine her... conviction. If she fails, then... But I don’t think she will.”

 

“Peter--”

 

“No. No, I think it’s past time we got over that insipid human name. It’s not my true name, Vulture.”

 

“Your true name? What on earth are you talking about?”

 

“Oh, I’m not talking about _Earth_ , Vulture. I’m talking about before. You remember it, don’t you? Being Orphan, being a fal’Cie in the center of Cocoon. Having thousands worship you? Until Derek’s pack and _your son_ destroyed you?”

 

“That vile man is _not_ my son. He’s an abomination that would lie with--”

 

“Do not forget your place, Vulture.”

 

“Yes... _Alpha_.”

 

“Oh, I’m past needing that title, _Argent_. You were a god once... _and so was I.”_

 

“... _Bhunivelze?_ ”

 

-x-

 

Isaac shows up just as she and Scott are about to leave for the Stilinski house. He looks better than he had the last time she's seen him. Allison's death still wore heavily in his face, just as it had in Scott's, but he looked better all the same.

 

"Oh. Are you leaving?" the boy asks, adjusting the strap of his bag as he stands at the front door.

 

"About to head to Stiles' for Christmas," Scott answers, and Melissa takes note of the fact that Scott is shyly avoiding Isaac's eyes.

 

"Oh, I can--"

 

"You can leave your bag upstairs and hurry back down. You're coming with," she tells him, leaving no room for arguing. He hesitates for a minute, before nodding and slipping inside.

 

Once he's upstairs, Melissa turns to her son.

 

"Scott, have you forgotten to tell me something about you and Isaac?"

 

"Mom!" Scott whines in surprise and embarrassment. Which, yes, she may occasionally forget the super hearing aspect.

 

"You're going to explain later. No arguments."

 

Scott nods.

 

-x-

 

Chris pushes his way through the throng of people last minute shopping, trying to get through to the light bulbs.

 

He doesn’t expect what happens.

 

There’s a woman a few feet ahead of him. Her hair is pulled to the side in a ponytail, loose and soft looking. The color is _different_.

 

It’s white and silver and brown, somehow looking completely natural on her. The shopping cart in front of her holds three boxes of dark brown hair dye, a handful of shirts and a few pairs of blue jeans.

 

She’s dressed in men's clothing.  The sweater she wears is a little too big, though she was tall enough to fit the length. The jeans were mens’ cut skinny jeans that didn't quite fit her form well, but she seems comfortable enough.

 

It isn’t until she turns around that he recognizes her. Laura Hale.

 

Except, Laura was dead. He remembers the last time he'd seen her. She had been wearing some of _his_ clothes then. His flannel shirt hanging loosely off her shoulders, open to show the pale soft skin of her belly and the black lace of her bra. "I love you, Chris," she'd told him, her voice breaking around the syllables of his name. Then she'd thrown her NYU hoodie on right over it and slipped out the door of his hotel room with her heels in her hands.

 

He'd found the letter wrapped in the tank top she'd stuffed in his bag. 

 

_I'm not a good person sometimes, Chris. But know that I love you. Always._

 

Victoria had informed them of their move as soon as he'd gotten back from New York. "There's been suspicious activity in Beacon Hills."

 

Of course, he hadn't known that a week after Laura left him her goodbyes she would be dead.

 

But here she is, her hair the color of clouds and dust instead of the brown he remembered carding his hands through as they lay together in the afterglow.

 

"Chris..." The way her lips form his name make it look like an agony but the way her breath rasps makes it sound like nirvana.

 

She stumbles a little in her too big shoes and then she’s falling into his arms with no grace at all. It feels like something was clicking into place again.

 

It doesn't make up for the loss of Allison or even of Victoria. It makes up for the loss of Laura though, having her back in his arms.

 

“Mr. Argent?” Lydia’s voice cuts through the moment, makes his arms around Laura hesitate.

 

He looks over Laura's shoulder to see Lydia with a hand on Laura's cart, a pink and white box in her other hand.

 

"Lydia," he says before swallowing.

 

"I didn't know you... knew her," Lydia says then, a little softer. She drops the box into the cart and lets a small smile flit across her face.

 

"Can we get out of here?" Laura whispers, her face still pressed into his chest, her hands tightening where they are fisted in his shirt. He hadn't noticed that, not until then.

 

They leave together, Laura not letting go of him until it’s time to climb into the car. She rides with him, bundles herself into the passenger seat and then fists her fingers into his shirt again. She anchors herself to him.

 

It makes something feel right again, to have her there.

 

Lydia drives behind him, careful not to lose him even though she knows the way he’s going. It’s comforting somehow.

 

"Did... Did Allison know?" Lydia asks him once Laura slips into the bathroom of his apartment to change. Chris feels raw and the mention of his daughter hurts.

 

"I... No, Allison didn't know," he answers. It's as much as he's willing to. Lydia isn't his friend. She was his little girl's best friend once but she's not... and she can't be.

 

He wonders if this is a good idea. Being here, with Laura and Lydia and the past. In this apartment where painful memories circled around him.

 

Being in Beacon Hills at all.

 

"I..." Lydia starts to say, but she cuts herself off. Thinking better of it, perhaps. Or just not knowing how to start.

 

Laura comes out before either of them can continue the awkward conversation, dressed in dark blue jeans and a red flannel shirt. She's wearing it open, over a black tank top and he's reminded of the past.

 

It's a visceral memory at that.

 

He loved her, once. Still. Always.

 

She wasn't Allison, wasn't his little girl--the most precious thing in his life.

 

But she was alive again, at his side. A lost love returned all the same.

 

"Lydia is taking me to see my brother again. You... you should join us."

 

"I don't know if that's..."

 

"It's Christmas Eve. You should be with family, Mr. Argent," Lydia says and her tone brooked no argument.

 

 

-x-

 

The Sheriff watches Melissa as she shuffles in behind Scott and Isaac. There's honest surprise on her face when she sees Derek pressed against Stiles on the couch, but whether that's because of how they are or the fact that he's there at all, the Sheriff doesn't know.

 

"I hope it's not a bother that we brought--"

 

"Not at all, Melissa. I've got my own stray." The Sheriff looks back to Derek and Stiles to see a scathing look on Derek's face at being called a stray. The blushing breaks the effort a bit, but he’ll let the kid have it.

 

"Scott was saying on the way over here that Stiles had something important to tell him that he refused to say on the phone. Are they... Are Stiles and Hale... together?" Melissa asks, and the Sheriff chokes out a little laugh.

 

Derek's blush deepens, but he's not even looking at the Sheriff anymore so he ignores it.

 

"Lydia played zombie werewolf again last night. This time it was on purpose. She was trying to bring Allison back to life," Stiles says loudly over Scott's voice.

 

Everything in the room stops for a moment.

 

"Is... Is Allison...?" Scott barely manages to get the words out and the Sheriff doesn't think anyone else could manage that if they tried.

 

"No, Allison isn't alive. But... Laura Hale is."

 

-x-

 

Bhunivelze smirks at the lot of them, huddled together like sheep. It’s such a beautiful sight. And oh, it would be so easy to pick them off right now. So unbearably easy.  
  
"Peter... _Father_ , can I have one?" The coyote asks once they leave the street to head back and Bhunivelze feels a measure of pride come across him. He didn't much care that he had apparently fathered the little bitch, but she’s quick and blood thirsty and that's all that matters for his plans.  
  
And being born of him would make her an excellent sacrifice for more power when the time came.  
  
Her blood would be delicious.  
  
"You can have one of the humans I suppose, Malia. I have plans for the rest of them. Especially Derek and the spark."  
  
"Yes, Father."  
  
Bhunivelze runs his tongue across his lips in anticipation.  
  
Oh, how hard it was to wait.

 

-x-

 

He's uneasy as they reach the door to Sheriff Stilinski's house. It feels too intrusive to do this.

 

He's about to back away when Laura's hand catches the bared skin of his wrist.

 

"Please," the press of her fingers seem to say.

 

So he does.

 

Lydia knocks twice before letting herself in, ignoring a great deal of social manners. They follow her in, Laura only releasing his wrist once they've both breached the doorway.

 

"Derek," Laura cries a little, and then her arms are full of her younger brother. 


	6. Chapter Five - Happy Endings are for the Innocent

**Chapter Five - _Happy Endings are for the Innocent_**

 

 

> _"You serious?" The man next to him asks in a whisper, his hooded face turned towards him. He doesn’t look at his face, but he knows it’s the same man from the platform who he’d warned to take the next car._
> 
>  
> 
> _"Be quiet," Derek hisses at him._
> 
>  
> 
> _"Best of luck," the man replies softly, his hood completely obscuring his face as he looks straight down._
> 
>  
> 
> _He takes the opportunity when the train bursts through into the next area with a cacophony of rumbling to attack the guard in the train car._
> 
>  
> 
> _He stomps on the automatic cuff switch until they all snap open, freeing the rest of them. He goes on the defensive when guards start pouring into the car. Taking them down with ease, he makes his way through the next car._
> 
>  
> 
> _The guards aren't prepared for anyone combat ready and fall under his hands like paper dolls._
> 
>  
> 
> _He keeps moving through the train, car after car, taking out guards._
> 
>  
> 
> _Within moments, he’s joined by the man from the platform again. This time he’s got most of their train car with him. They’re all carrying the guns Derek had left with the unconscious guards, most of whom have obviously never held one._
> 
>  
> 
> _"They all want to fight," the man tells him._
> 
>  
> 
> _But Derek doesn't care._
> 
>  
> 
> _"Good for them."_
> 
>  
> 
> _The train barrels on._

 

“So... this is awkward,” Laura admits, sitting on the arm of the couch next to Derek. He’s pressed up against Stiles, who doesn’t seem to mind the lack of space given the three or four inches between himself and Scott. Sheriff Stilinski is in casual clothes, a Property of Beacon Hills t-shirt and blue jeans. It suits him, though it’s weird not to see him in the sheriff’s uniform. She doesn’t know the woman, but she thinks she must be Scott’s mother--which is another weird thing to think about.

 

Scott was Derek’s brother, once upon a time. Laura had never known the details of their lives before she came to Derek in their first life, other than what she had been told or overheard. And in this life, _she_ was Derek’s sibling. She’d never even met Scott before.

 

But she knew who he was. She knows who he is now. If Derek remembers, which she’s still unsure of, then she can’t imagine how he feels. She doesn’t know if they’re close. She can tell that Derek and Stiles _must be._

 

Chris is still wary and unsure of himself, standing off to the side. She wants to comfort him, ease him into things, but she doesn’t know how.

 

She left him, a year ago, with no explanation. And now she’s back and he’s... he’s broken and she doesn’t know why.

 

Why wasn’t he with his family? Did Victoria leave him? Why had he come to Beacon Hills at all?

 

“I haven’t found anything anywhere about whatever the killer is using to write his message with. And we don’t know what it means. There could be more bodies out there marked like this and we wouldn’t know,” Stiles says, waving his hand at the laptop on the table in front of them. He’s open to a plain looking forum, layers of brown boxes that look familiar enough for her to recognize it as reputable.

 

“I’ve got Parrish checking all recent deaths within the county, but some of these were already declared accidental or suicide. It’s not going to be easy for him without upsetting families, especially today,” Sheriff Stilinski picks up before taking a drink from his mug. It’s coffee, though an inexpensive brand if her nose is right. She wonders if it’s because he likes the taste or if he can’t afford anything else.

 

“I haven’t felt anything,” Lydia admits then, and she looks worried at that. Laura can’t imagine being in her position. She hadn’t been told much, but Lydia did tell her about her banshee powers.

 

It feels so unfair that she would be stuck in that cycle of death and rebirth, only to still be connected to death now.

 

But Laura hasn’t expected anything to be fair since she was twenty-two at the Beacon Hills Spring Fling with her boyfriend Ashton, not even upset that it was taking place at the school that year.

 

“Derek, you must be the Alpha now. Can you sense anything?” Laura asks, and everyone _stops._

 

Even Chris, who’s staring at her with such a tortured look she can’t stand it.

 

“Derek’s not an Alpha,” Scott says then, leaning forward to catch her face.

 

His eyes flash red and she knows hers must flash in return.

 

“You... You let a kid kill Peter?” She knows she must nearly yell it by the way Derek flinches.

 

“Hey! I didn’t kill anyone!” Scott says in surprise and _Laura is so confused._

 

“Why didn’t Derek get the power when he killed Peter then? It should have--”

 

“It did,” Chris interrupts her, and she watches Derek slowly start to relax.

 

“I think I need to know what has been happening. Now.”

 

“There’s... Look, a _lot_ has happened. Highlights... Scott is a True Alpha, Derek gave up his alpha powers to save Cora’s life--” Stiles starts.

 

“ _Cora’s alive?_ ” Laura feels her heartbeat kick up, know the whole room can hear it.

 

“She’s on her way here. She’s been staying in Bran Bal. It’s a village in South America. They took her in after the fire,” Derek explains. She wants to ask more, but Derek shakes his head.

 

“Peter was dead but now he’s not--” Stiles tries to continue but she can’t _handle_ that.

 

“No. Please tell me you’re lying!” Derek is reaching for her and she knows he can feel the panic in her, smell it, hear it.

 

“Laura, Laura, it’s okay. He hasn’t done--” Derek tries, but she pushes his hands away.

 

“ _No._ You don’t understand! He has to be the one doing this--”

 

“We already thought about that. He couldn’t have been, there’s security camera footage of him when the second murder happened.”

 

“No, Derek. I... You don’t. He’s not... you can’t trust him. He’s _Bhunivelze.”_

 

-x-

 

Chris doesn’t want to believe her. Doesn’t want to believe that their sacrifice would have been cruel enough to rescue the god that tried to kill them too.

 

But Laura believes it. Laura believes it and Chris doesn’t think she would lie, not about this.

 

Not about _him_.

 

“Bhunivelze... but that’s just a god from one of Scott’s video games... right?” Scott’s mother asks, and he can see the fear written across her face, the desperate need for it to be true.

 

“He was the god of everything once. _Almighty Bhunivelze, god of light, stands above other gods and holds the world in his palm. He created Pulse the wild, Lindzei the wise, and Etro, the goddess of death and Chaos, and then retreated from man's sight and slipped into a long slumber,”_ Stiles quotes, and each word resonated true.

Chris can tell by the way everyone is reacting that they all remembered. Not totally, not completely, but enough.

“I thought it was a stupid dream. Been having them since your mother died,” Sheriff Stilinski says, obviously to Stiles. Scott’s mother bites back a cry, and Scott is at her side in an instant.

“I remembered on the plane back from France,” Isaac says quietly, and Chris _finally_ understands. That deluge of knowledge must have been terrifying. He doesn’t blame Isaac for needing to be alone, not anymore.

“It’s real? I was really your brother once?” Scott asks Derek suddenly, and then Chris remembers how devoted Derek had been to saving him once. How nothing else mattered but Scott.

_How could he have ever thought Derek a monster?_

 

-x-

 

He’s still soaked in sweat, dust, and dried blood when he pushes through the door into Peter’s bedroom, uncaring about the lingering filth from his trek through South America. Instead, he strips off his shirt and relaxes back on the mattress, letting his body go weak and pliant. His master leans over him, pinning him down. There’s a grin on his face with too many teeth, but he finds he doesn’t care.

“Are you ready for tonight, boy?” Peter-- _Bhunivelze_ \--asks, and he feels a stirring of arousal in his gut at the idea.

"It will be the best kill yet," he whispers into Bhunivelze's mouth and kisses him hard.

 

-x- 

 

It happened to him _twice_.

 

It was real.

 

It was real and they all knew it was real and... 

 

 

> _Derek doesn't seem to notice. That's the first thing that Stiles thought._
> 
>   
>  _How can he not notice? Derek knows him better than anyone else has since his dad died._
> 
>   
>  _It doesn't change, not as far as he can tell. Derek never attempted to distrust what came out of Stiles' mouth and it made something in him ache._
> 
>  
> 
> _**You're doing my will, child. Your God thanks you.** _
> 
>  
> 
> _Stiles thought, for a moment, that Derek would figure it out, know that he wasn't the one speaking. When he was in Boyd's office in Ruffian and he commented on how detached he sounded. As if what had happened to them had happened to someone else._
> 
>   
>  _But he never did._  
> 
> 
> _**He wouldn't thank you if you could tell him. He'd hate you, sure as anything.** _
> 
>   
>  _He loved Derek. He had always wanted Derek to trust him this implicitly; he had always wanted Derek to care about his opinion and talk to him._
> 
>   
>  _But not like this. Never like this._
> 
>   
>  **_You're doing so well, Stiles. You're doing my will and you will be rewarded._ **
> 
>   
>  **_ Bring Scott back to him._ **
> 
>   
>  **_You know I can't do that, Stiles. Why would you ask me to do that?_ **
> 
>   
>  **_ You promised him his brother back!_ **
> 
>   
>  **_I am a god, and I will do what I want. You will not disobey me._ **
> 
>  
> 
> **_ Yes, Bhunivelze.  _ **
> 
>   
>  **_Good boy._**  
> 
> 
> _"Derek, we need to find the Clavis," Bhunivelze spoke with Stiles' voice._
> 
> _The knowledge of what the Clavis would do burned in his head like a memory he'd rather forget. His dad would be gone again, permanently this time. Everyone would be, except those few left now. Derek would never want this, if he knew._
> 
>  
> 
> _Bhunivelze's smirk on Stiles' face, reflected in the screen of his computer, felt like broken glass in his mouth._

 

 

Stiles barely made it to the bathroom before he was heaving, vomit and spit splattering on the bathroom floor. He managed to make it to the toilet before the next heave, consciously aware of the hand rubbing circles on his back.

 

"Give him some space," Derek's voice cuts through the din in his head, loud but even.

 

"He's my _son_ ," his dad protested.

 

Derek didn't stop gently rubbing despite his dad’s presence, not even when his dad crouched beside him as he heaved again.

 

"I love you kid. This doesn't change anything, okay?"

 

Stiles jerked his head shakily in a nod as he leaned back into Derek’s touch.

 

“If... If Peter’s really Bhunivelze... and if he’s the one... killing people. This is... it’s bad. He’s not _human_ ,” Stiles shivered.

 

“You... you said he was a god,” his dad said.

 

“Bhunivelze created the gods who created humanity and at the end of the world, humanity revolted against him. We killed him, Dad. He wasn’t... he shouldn’t be alive. If he remembers...” Stiles trailed off, unable to finish.

 

“Then he’s just playing with us. His endgame has to be about power,” Derek continued, his hand stilled.

 

“They’re sacrifices. Blake. I don’t remember Blake. Who was Blake?” Stiles asked.

 

“The Darach, right?” his dad asked, and Stiles nodded.

 

“We’ve all been pulled together. There’s seven billion people on this planet and yet _we’re all here_. **_Together_**. Blake... she’s the only one I can’t place.”

 

“We should focus on finding out what Peter’s plan is,” Derek interrupted him.

 

“Cora. Where’s Cora, Derek?”

 

-x-

 

Malia knows that this is wrong. The coyote part of her had no qualms with the kill, but the human part--especially the human part that remembered things she shouldn't--knows that it’s wrong.  


She remembers though, the way Peter's voice sounded when he said he had plans for Derek and Stiles. Remembers how his identity was less important to him than whatever it was he could do as a spark.  


It hadn't even been a day since that nasty inhuman creature had brought her to Peter, to her birth father. And she was already expected to fall to his will.  


He knew what she was to him. "I can smell it on you." And he knew that her morality was skewed by the coyote.

  
He didn't know she remembered being an adult.  


He didn't know she would do anything to make sure that Stiles would be okay this time.  


So she'd agreed.  


It wasn't as if she was alone. The jaguar was with her. She hadn't learned the creature's name, hadn't cared to listen to her father's introduction. He'd liked it when she called the shifter-woman a house cat instead.  


"If you're too afraid, little girl, I can do it for you," the woman purrs in her ear.  


"I'm not afraid. Can't you smell that? It's not my first kill."  


It was true, mostly. It wasn't her first kill.  


It would be her first murder though.  


"Oh, Princess. You've even got claws when daddy's away. That's cute. I'll be watching," the woman says, lightly biting the edge of her ear with her blunt human teeth.  


Malia swats at the unwelcome and uncomfortable intrusion, growling, "You do that."  


She steps deliberately forward into the road, waving down the police cruiser passing by on patrol.

  
"I need help!" She pretends to cry, shaking her hands as if nervous.  


"Hey, it's okay. What can I help you with, miss?"

  
"It's my dad. He's... He's going to be so angry. I don't want... I can't..." She rambles and it works.  


She's hardly done anything!  


But the deputy opens the car door.  


Perfect.  


She bolts forward and holds him down by sitting on him.  


To her horror, he smells aroused at that.  


"You're disgusting," she snarls, feeling the shift begging to come over her. She's dressed like she's several years younger--deliberately.  


"Like you're the first little girl to want--"  


She lets her face change, feels the rush of power it gives her to feel his terror beneath her, to smell it.  


"Deputy Haigh. Your god has weighed you on the scales and you have been found wanting," she recites, her stomach churning.  


"I haven't--"  


She presses her arm into his throat, using as much strength as she can muster without crushing his windpipe. It's important he's alive for this part.  


"You will be an excellent sacrifice," she whispers in his ear as she pulls the gun from his holster.  


He starts to struggle then, but he isn't a match for her. She breaks his arm while trying to force the gun into his hand and feels no guilt over it. He’s howling in pain, obviously trying not to scream.  


"How many?" she asks, going off script.  


He shakes his head, gritting his teeth.  


"How. Many." she demands again, twisting his broken arm as he finally loses control and screams, his cry loud and broken.  


"Six, six. Six girls. They were asking--" he answers, stopping when she slams the gun--still in his hand where her own hand keeps it tightly fisted--into his groin.  


She wants to shoot him there so badly.  


"How old were they? Answer me or you die right now," she snarls, moving the gun to the underside of his chin.  


"Fifteen? I don't know--I didn't ask--"  


"I would have made this an easy death, you know. I was supposed to make it quick, not injure you."  


"Death? You said--"  


"I lied," Malia says, using her small fingers and supernatural strength to make him pull the trigger himself.  


It’s messy and loud and bloody.  


She crawls off his lap.  


"You're too emotional," the woman states, looking disapproving.  


"You think he's going to care about a broken arm?" Malia asks, fighting the urge to vomit. She drags a finger through the blood on her face and walks around to the front of the car. The woman follows.  


"You think he gives a damn about some little girls?"  


"No. I know he doesn't. Don't you know who he was? Who he's becoming again?"  


"I don't much care, girl."  


"You will."

 

-x-

 

Cora’s phone rings too many times for Derek’s comfort. He hangs up and redials the number twice, sharing a little bit of panic between him and Stiles with nothing more than a glance.

 

“Sheriff!”

 

Derek nearly drops the phone when the shout echoes through the small bathroom. The sheriff is on his feet in an instant, rushing towards Scott’s voice. Stiles follows.

 

“Derek, what’s happening? Derek?” Cora’s voice is suddenly loud in his ears. Derek doesn’t move to follow them out, instead focusing on Cora.

 

“Cora, where are you?”

 

“I’m an hour outside Beacon Hills, Derek, what’s going on?”

 

“You need to get here as soon as you can. It’s... It’s Peter,”

 

“Did he finally lose--”

 

“Peter is Bhunivelze.”

 

“What? No, he can’t...”

 

“Cora, there’s something else you need to know something before you get here,” Derek interrupts as he looks back through the bathroom door as if he can still see Stiles.

 

“Something more terrifying that Peter being Bhunivelze?” Cora’s voice sounds shrill and afraid and Derek hates that he’s doing this over the phone.

 

“Everyone’s remembering... and Lydia... Lydia brought Laura back to life, Cora. Laura’s alive.”

 

-x-

 

Bhunivelze slinks out of his bed, careful not to wake his precious companion. He can hear the twin heartbeats approaching, can practically taste the blood that lingers on their skin. Malia’s practically snarling at the other shifter by the time he reaches them, her claws digging into the flesh of her palms so she doesn’t lash out like her nature desires.

 

The coyote’s blood smells heavenly to him, even mixed with the lingering taint of the deputy’s own blood on her skin.

 

“ _Argent_. I suggest you head back to your den before the girl decides to eviscerate you. I do think she’s quite capable.”

 

He leaves them before he hears either of them respond, though he longs to see their fight in all its glory.

 

 

The kanima has returned to his side early, his sated body resting peacefully in his bed. He has other plans to put into fruition before the night comes, though.

 

The evening’s sacrifice needed to be checked on. It was such a hassle to have to kidnap someone ahead of time, but he could hardly expect to catch the man unprepared once he ramped up the game.

 

Alan Deaton is much too paranoid a man for that after all.

**Author's Note:**

> As some of you may know, some time into the writing process for this piece I was suddenly faced with the devastating loss of my first child halfway through my pregnancy. The past few months have been achingly hard, but I have endeavored to power through and still get this put out there. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed what I've got up, and that you continue to enjoy it as the story continues. There's much more to come. <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [ here. ](http://writerdragonfly.tumblr.com)


End file.
